


all the way to the bridge

by aweekofsaturdays



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Beer, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Character Study, First Kiss, House Party, Ice Cream, M/M, Mission District, Modern AU, PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prosthetics, San Francisco, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, hipster AU, roof party, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 14:30:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4880407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aweekofsaturdays/pseuds/aweekofsaturdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky likes the way Steve’s t-shirt hangs loosely on his slight frame, and how his hair flops attractively over his forehead, brushing against the tops of wire-rimmed glasses. </p><p>Bucky catches himself staring and looks away, but glances back a moment later - Steve’s so new to him still that he keeps finding something else to notice and wonder about.</p><p>-----</p><p>veteran!Bucky and pre-serum!Steve meet in San Francisco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the way to the bridge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [batmandeh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/batmandeh/gifts).



There's something to be said for the way his hair looks, gleaming gold in the lantern lights strung up over the San Francisco rooftop. Steve gestures with one slim hand, half-spilling the drink he's holding all over himself. Bucky can see the resulting sheepish smile from across the deck but doesn’t quite make out his low apology as Steve mops his skinny arms with a spare napkin from the table. Bucky likes the way Steve’s t-shirt hangs loosely on his slight frame, and how his hair flops attractively over his forehead, brushing against the tops of wire-rimmed glasses. 

Bucky catches himself staring and looks away, but glances back a moment later - Steve’s so new to him still that he keeps finding something else to notice and wonder about.

The beautiful, tattooed girl Steve's talking to grins ruefully at something he says, and Bucky recognizes her kind of smile, flashing pale on her dark face. A similar one shows up uninvited when he looks in the mirror and thinks about how he’s somehow so fascinated by a little slip of a nothing guy he’s only met a handful of times. 

They’ve been introduced a few times by Natasha or Sam, both of whom pinned Bucky with side-eye glances as he had shifted awkwardly on his feet and tucked his left hand into his pocket. It was too much to explain to a stranger, how long he’d had the prosthetic, how strange it felt to wake up in the morning and feel like part of himself had been misplaced. 

Bucky noticed Steve though, every time he met him thereafter - noticed how when he sidled up to the bar at the El Rio, even the sulky bartender brightened when she saw him. There was a quality to him that everyone warmed to immediately, and Bucky wished he understood it.

Bucky looks away now, the flirting moderately unbearable to watch, even if it’s clear Steve’s unaware of the effect he’s having. Something about the way he ducks his head when he laughs, the way his blond hair falls over his face and he sweeps it back from his forehead impatiently. Bucky’s spent a couple hours in bars here and there yelling back and forth with Steve over irritatingly loud music, and they’ve ranted together about the change in the city these last few years, how it’s turned into something they don’t recognize. It’s never been anything monumental but it’s stuck with him, the way it was easy to chat about everything and nothing and feel himself relax.

Bucky shifts in his seat now, beer bottle smooth in his right hand - the left isn’t quite dextrous enough to grasp a bottle yet - something about the neural connections or whatever. The point is that the hand looks enough like the real thing to pass, but it’s mostly just a placeholder for something he left overseas, that’s never going to find its way back to him. He taps the thumb and left forefinger together, repeating the exercises his trainer drilled into him, soothing himself with the routine. 

The rough pile of the couch underneath him chafes at his right palm and the backs of his calves, and the late-evening sun winds its way down towards the horizon; a rare unfoggy day with a view all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge stretched out beautifully, the hum of the city almost imperceptible from up here. Bucky picks at a spare thread, nursing the beer quietly (something local, of course) and wishing it were still cold. 

There’s something about this rooftop, these people, this expensive beer and too-fancy food that sits uncomfortably with Bucky - he knows that the neighborhood used to be mostly Mexican families and cellular network stores that locals would use for buying calling cards and trying to connect with people back home. 

But now the rent has skyrocketed, and next to the little taco places are the fancy eateries run by people who’ve never set foot in the neighborhood before in their life. Himself included - he knows he’s only here because it’s gentrified, because some techie buddy of his from his VA group found a loft miraculously and snatched it up before the worst part of the boom. 

It’s an ugly truth that the worn-in grit of the Mission is quickly being replaced by the slick steel of new growth, of restaurants no one can really afford to eat in. It depresses Bucky, knowing that he’s part of the problem but that there’s nothing he can do to stop the inevitable.

There’s something antithetical to that about Steve that Bucky’s drawn to, that’s a rarity in this day and age. There’s an air of an old world in the lines of his slight frame, something that makes Bucky wonder what it would have been like to grow up together ages ago, something that evokes straight razors and penny candy and newspapers intently read for draft numbers. Bucky wants to be in that circle of light, that halo around Steve that everyone mysteriously finds so inviting and that is, at the moment, so far away. Bucky doesn’t know how to approach him, doesn’t know how to make it more than one acquaintance casually greeting another. 

Steve makes it easy on him, glancing out across the party as the girl turns to talk to someone else. He catches Bucky’s eye and grins, a sheepish half-smirk and flash of teeth. Bucky wishes he didn’t want to catch Steve’s lower lip with his teeth, and wonder what sound he’d make. Steve waves a little, and Bucky sits up straighter, mouth opening, not sure what to do. The logical thing would be to get up and go over there; of course it would, the unspoken invitation is lying there between them like money on the ground. 

Bucky’s always been something of a coward, always felt it easier to sit back and let things come to him, always waited and watched and calculated. It’s a lazy way out of any kind of risk; he knows it and is always that tiniest bit ashamed. 

Tonight is different, though; tonight he feels a twinge in his left shoulder reminding him of nights too long and years too short, tonight for some reason he feels something blooming inside him, warming his chest and burning away the cold reach of anxiety where it winds into his ribcage like spidery fingers. 

He knows he’s waited too long, feels like an idiot, but steels himself and hauls himself upright; he feels the old velvet of the couch smooth against his palm, and tries not to spill his beer in his haste. Steve is still watching him.

Bucky saunters over, trying to look casual as he gets closer, even though he can feel the sweat starting to bead at the back of his neck. He scrubs a hand over his longish hair and looks at Steve through his eyelashes, a concentrated effort and a calculated one. Steve looks amused, as though he knows exactly what’s happening here, but the amusement is kind and Bucky feels as though maybe he accidentally got something right. 

“Hi James,” Steve starts, offering a cheers with his own beer bottle. Bucky’s mind slides away for a moment, he hasn’t been called James since-- well. He isn’t used to it in this context.

“It’s-um. I go by Bucky, actually.” Bucky stumbles over his words, blinking to clear the fog the name brings up. “My middle name’s Buchanan, friends call me Bucky. No one calls me James anymore.” 

Steve cocks his head and shrugs. “Sure it is. Suits you better, anyway - James is more of a yuppie-banker name, anyway.” 

Bucky opens his mouth to object but catches himself, realizing that Steve’s just messing with him. “Yeah, well at least somebody put all those assholes all together in the Financial District, so we can avoid ‘em.” 

Steve actually cracks a good smile at that one, touches his forehead like he’s almost embarrassed to laugh. It blindsides Bucky suddenly, how a wave of something fierce rises up in him at that little gesture; he clenches his left hand and feels the gears catch, clears his throat. 

“Anyway,” Steve looks back up at him, “how’re you connected to these folks again?”

Bucky covers a wince with a sip of beer - no way to get out of this one. “Nat’s an old friend - we used to dance together when we were kids.”

“You dance?” Steve is delighted.

“Yup, ballet for ten years. Stopped when it was go pro or go home. Figured it was a better life choice to go home.”

“Most men wouldn’t admit that they did ballet, you know.” Steve’s tone is amused, challenging.

“Most men have an infantile view of traditionally gendered activities in this day and age,” Bucky replies hotly, defensive. “I happen to be very comfortable with my various activities.” He blushes, realizing how much of an innuendo that sounds like and wishing he was even just the slightest bit more smooth. 

Steve’s mouth quirks and Bucky could swear he sees the faintest beginnings of a blush, even though the yellow saturation of the light precludes any further examination. 

“I actually met Natasha in school,” Steve soldiers on past the moment. “We took an oceanography class together to fulfill a requirement and us hanging out was what stuck. Also I know a weird amount about wind currents now.”

“That seems...useful?”

“It mostly is, actually, I mean I can shock people with my vast amounts of knowledge and smug superiority when they’re confused about why it rains in July here sometimes.”

“That does seem important. You can pull it out as a trick at parties.”

“Clearly.” Steve grins this time, lopsided and real, and Bucky feels like he’s suddenly in the spotlight and doesn’t quite know how he got there. 

“Anyway, do you- um. Do you want to go get some ice cream?” he asks, running a hand through his hair and looking out over the party so he doesn’t have to see Steve’s reaction. “Or a beer or something, I don’t care.”

“Don’t you want to stay at the party? Keep schmoozing?” Steve’s face is impassive, unreadable. Bucky isn’t sure whether that’s a no or not. 

“Not particularly,” Bucky shrugs. “I said hi to Nat and Sam but other than that I mostly don’t know anyone. I’m not great with parties, anyway.” He stops himself from continuing, reminds himself that he doesn’t have to explain anything to anyone, isn’t obligated to share his story yet. He wouldn’t have thought that the VA group would have made him a talker, but ever since Sam got him started, it was like he couldn’t stop talking about it, couldn’t bear to let any shred of his memories hide inside him for fear something would come out and catch him unawares. 

Steve still hasn’t said anything particularly encouraging, but Bucky catches the end of an assessing glance; shivers a little, idly wondering what it’d be like to be under Steve’s eyes and little else. There’s still that odd something about Steve, that sense of slippage, of existing out of time, and Bucky is fascinated, is always fascinated when he sees Steve, and tonight he can’t bear to be sharing it with the rest of the room.

Abruptly, Steve nods and smiles, as if he’s decided something. Bucky thinks he’s maybe never seen anything better than that half-grin and those skinny fingers running through golden hair.  
“Sure, I’d love to - let’s get out of here.” 

“Awesome. How about Bi-Rite?” Bucky suggests. “The line’s obscene but the salted caramel’s worth it.” 

Steve nods and begins to turn away to say his goodbyes; Bucky grabs his jacket, sliding it on against the chill of the evening. The left arm is just a little awkward, and Steve’s gaze lingers, but he doesn’t speak; his expression tightens, a little, and Bucky prays that he won’t be one of the ones who asks up front. Bucky hates talking about it, hates drawing attention to his...his disability. He just wants to fit back into some semblance of a normal life, and pretend he can sleep normally and that he isn’t still groping around trying to find the part of himself that got lost on the way back home. 

Steve looks away finally and proceeds to make the rounds, disentangling himself from what promise to be longer conversations, and Bucky is oddly thrilled that this boy is leaving with him, smug that he gets Steve to himself. 

Bucky feels a touch to his elbow and starts; he hadn’t realized he was staring, and it’s Nat, of course, red hair half-buzzed and gleaming in the rooftop lights. She’s looking at him knowingly, as always can see right through his casual manner. 

“Getting lucky, Barnes?” she smirks. 

“Not the goal here, Romanoff,” he ducks the question, “But I’m gonna take him to Bi-Rite, see if he can stand me for as long as it takes to get a cone.” He pulls his hair back into a bun with an elastic, self-soothing under Nat’s scrutiny. He really needs a haircut. 

“Pretty sure you guys’ll be old men by the time you manage to get one,” she teases. “But hey - as long as you know what you’re getting yourself into here.”

“What do you mean? It’s literally just ice cream.” Bucky rolls his eyes, deliberately obtuse, and throws up his hands in mock-innocence. 

“Sure it is.” Natasha looks at him like he’s the dumbest guy to ever open his mouth, but she doesn’t say anything else - just grins at him, teeth flashing white. 

He knows she’s just messing with him, knows she wants him to be happy since they figured out they weren’t right for each other. There’s something about the two of them that didn’t fit, something about her that was more sharp and something about him, more quiet. He loves her, though, and always will - will always remember the two of them curled together in the quiet morning light before an early dance class, wondering what the future would hold and if they would be in it for each other. It’s a relief and a wonder to have her around, some semblance of continuity with the gaping hole in the middle of his timeline, and her tacit approval of this whole Steve situation now makes Bucky feel settled, validated. 

She slides a hand around the back of his neck and squeezes a little, tugging his forehead down to meet her own. “Don’t fuck it up, kiddo,” she says quietly, and smiles just for him. “I’m pretty sure it’ll be ok though.” 

He heaves a sigh and rests a moment, his hand on her wrist a comfort and an anchor, then straightens, and lets her go. He meets Steve’s gaze across the deck for the second time that night, and something jolts through him, starting in the pit of his stomach and sparking out - he feels indescribably lucky that this moment seems to be marginally going his way, that maybe he stumbled into doing something right for once.

It’s only been a handful of moments since they started their goodbyes but it feels like forever to Bucky. He wishes he could just slip out unnoticed, and does sometimes, but Steve is literally the golden boy and has a harder time getting away. 

They finally extricate themselves and duck through the rooftop door, making their way down the stairs. Bucky watches Steve’s progress ahead of him, thinks he could follow that pale hair forever, like a beacon or a candle. Steve looks back once, as if to make sure Bucky’s still there, and pauses, but the moment passes and he continues; there aren’t that many stairs, after all, and the hallway is stuffy with the smell of curry. 

They come out onto the street and there’s a strange bubble of quiet, like something is holding their block in stasis; no one walks by and as Bucky watches Steve step out in front of him, he sees his own hand reach out almost of its own accord to tap Steve’s shoulder and tug him back gently. He can’t believe he’s going to press his luck. “What is it?” Steve asks and half-turns--- Bucky can’t stop looking at his mouth, and somehow hears himself stuttering, “You- Um. Can I?”

Steve is one step ahead of him, he’s already nodding and reaching for the collar of Bucky’s shirt and spinning them around to back himself up against the wall of the house; quicker than Bucky can blink, Steve’s lips are moving over his and they’re kissing. It’s almost a surprise and yet it feels inevitable, like this is just another piece of the puzzle; it’s chaste until Steve opens his mouth and all bets are off. Bucky smooths his right hand over Steve’s jaw and the kiss deepens, and it’s good, it’s so so good and Steve’s mouth is warm and quiet and he kisses like he’s drugged, slow and hazy and never-ending. 

After a moment, Bucky pulls back an inch, his nose still barely pressed to Steve’s, and keeps his eyes closed. He almost doesn’t want to see the reaction, wants to hold onto this moment without knowing what’s going to happen next, wants to just feel the slight chill of his lips in the cool air and the light touch of Steve’s hands where they’re slung around his shoulders, the cool brush of Steve’s hair against his forehead. 

Steve sighs, a slight hum, and Bucky can’t help it - he looks. Steve is… surprisingly steady, like nothing’s going to topple his slight frame over, like he’s OK to hold Bucky up through this moment. He smiles slightly, and Bucky can feel the look on his own face, his own shock at how good this is, his knowledge of how he’s absolutely doomed, and how he absolutely does not care how bad he’s got it. He knows he could get addicted to this, could see waking up to that kind of kiss and a million others, and thinks it might be exactly what he’s been looking for in the middle of sleepless nights. 

He brushes his thumb over Steve’s cheek, and leans down again. He tries to remind himself that they’re in public, and that this particular kiss shouldn’t go too far. Steve’s fingers tuck just a little bit under the collar of his shirt, pressing lightly against skin in a quiet promise that says there may be a later. They pull apart finally and Steve’s eyes are bright, almost mischievous. “So. Um.” He clears his throat and swipes a hand through his hair. “How about that ice cream?” 

Bucky grins back and sees Steve’s eyes widen. His grin turns smug, pleased that he can give back at least a little of the effect Steve has on him. There’s something about Steve being off-kilter that he already knows he’s going to like a little too much. 

“This way,” he says roughly, and carefully wraps his right hand around Steve’s left; he already knows Steve’ll be the one to end up leading, can see it stretched out in front of him down the quiet street and into the bustle of the Mission. He’s content to follow; knows that whatever’s waiting for him is worth following along for.

**Author's Note:**

> Reblog on tumblr [here](http://aweekofsaturdays.tumblr.com/post/129960399202/all-the-way-to-the-bridge-chapter-1)! Comments welcome.
> 
> Also: [the Sebastian Stan photoset that started it all](http://aweekofsaturdays.tumblr.com/post/121113681962/luninosity-4clovesofsummer-im-very-grateful). And everything that gives me [skinny!Steve on a rooftop](http://aweekofsaturdays.tumblr.com/post/113464536732/kvetchlandia-izis-whitechapel-london) feels.


End file.
